The Gold and the Black
by Argonaut57
Summary: Four inexplicable deaths of influential men puzzle the detective of New York. Meanwhile a miasma of terror settles over Chinatown. Terror encapsulated in a single name - Fu Manchu. The stage is set for a battle between two equally dark and sinister figures. Two masters of terror and sudden death. Who will be victorious? Only The Shadow knows!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Scented Note**

The scream rang through the elegant Manhattan brownstone, sending chills through the staff. It was the scream of a strong man in the last extremity, and even the normally imperturbable English butler turned pale at the sound. Nevertheless, he, the masters' valet and the chauffeur all made their way to the source of the cry.

They found their master in the doorway of his study, sprawled across the threshold as if he had been seeking aid or escape. A powerfully-built man in his fifties, dressed elegantly but casually for a rare evening at home. The rugged face that had graced so many newspaper and magazine pages was contorted in pain or fear, puffy and swollen. The butler could find no pulse.

The doctor was called. He examined the body briefly, then sent for the police. Detective Cardona from Homicide arrived promptly with his men and began a full enquiry. But for now, the only indisputable fact was that Caspar H Letherington Junior was dead.

The Cobalt Club serves an excellent dinner, but any dinner can be improved by company. Police Commissioner Wainwright Barth enjoyed the company of his nephew, Lamont Cranston, more than most. Despite the fact that the boy had done not a hands' turn of work since the War, he nonetheless managed to be informed, and wittily informative, about the important issues of the day. Especially those which the demanding work of a Police Commissioner in the biggest, toughest city in the world did not allow Barth to keep track of. He was privately convinced that, despite his poise of idleness, Lamont was busily involved, behind the scenes, in some of the more admirable projects and causes of the time.

Dessert was long gone, and the two men were lingering over coffee and brandy, when a uniformed officer was ushered over to the table. Barth excused himself to his nephew and engaged in a brief, low-voiced colloquy with the man.

"OK, let Cardona handle it." He finished aloud. "He can brief me tomorrow when the post-mortem is done."

He returned to the table, shaking his head, then seemed to come to a decision.

"See here, Lamont," he began, "I know you're a lot smarter than you'd like folk to think. More than once your ideas have shed light on a baffling case, so I'm going to tell you something we've been keeping out of the public eye. But you have to keep it to yourself, OK?"

"Of course, Uncle Wainwright." Cranston replied. "Anything I can do to help."

"Well, it's like this." Barth told him. "A week ago, we got a report of a suspicious death. A State Department official, David Ackerman, had died suddenly. Perfectly healthy guy, alone in his office, suddenly staggered out screaming and died right there in front of his secretary. When we got him to the Morgue, the coroner noticed his face was swollen and puffy, so we thought some kind of poison. But we couldn't find anything.

"Three days ago, another case. This time it was a professor at NYU, Simeon Meyer. Found dead on his bedroom floor by a maid. Same symptoms, same mystery as to how or why he died.

"Now that officer just told me that another man has died in the same kind of circumstances. This time it's a businessman, Caspar Letherington.

"What do you make of that, Lamont?"

A slight frown creased Cranstons' forehead. "Caspar Letherington Junior?" He asked. Barth nodded.

"I know Letherington." Cranston said. "He and I work together on the boards of a couple of charities. I know a lot of his friends and colleagues. Look, Uncle Wainwright, I'll think about this, but I'll also do some asking around. I'll be discreet, I promise. I'll see if I can dig up a tidbit or two. Even gossip might help."

Barth shrugged. "Right now, I've got nothing else, so I'll take gossip if it helps!" He looked shrewdly at his nephew. "You never said you were doing any charity work, Lamont."

It was Cranstons' turn to shrug. "What can I say, Uncle? It keeps me out of mischief, but I don't like to tell people. Once it gets around I'm doing something useful, I'll stop being a playboy and become a marriage prospect!"

Barth laughed aloud at that. "You are smarter than you look!" He commended. "I promise I won't say a word.

"Now I have to get going. Some of us need to get up before noon!"

Detective Joseph Cardona was alone in the morgue with Letheringtons' body. The mortuary assistant had taken the dead mans' clothes and effects off for examination. Soon, he would return with a colleague to place the body in one of the nearby drawers until tomorrows' post-mortem. The room was dimly-lit, apart from the bright lights above the table where the body lay. Cardona was surprised, but not shocked, when a long shadow suddenly fell across the table from behind him. He began to speak without preamble.

"No wounds, no sign of a struggle. He did scream and try to run out of his study, but whatever it was worked fast. He was dead by the time the staff reached him.

"According to his doctor, he was in perfect health. He ate nothing today that he hadn't eaten before. He had an early dinner, drank two glasses of red wine. There was a glass in his study with whiskey in it, his usual brand, and he'd been smoking a Havana cigar.

"Only two odd things. That mark, for one." He indicated a small mark on the back of the corpses' left hand. It was red in colour, and resembled the imprint of lips. "It's not lipstick, it didn't come off when they washed the body. Might be a birthmark, I'll ask his doctor tomorrow.

"The second thing is the smell. More of a perfume, really. Heavy and exotic. My uncle grows orchids, and some of them smell a bit like it. I noticed it in the other two cases, but didn't know where it came from. But I found something on Letheringtons' desk. An envelope, and a blank sheet of paper. The paper was drenched in that perfume. I cut the paper in two, sent half of it to the lab with the envelope. I have the other half here. I was going to send it to you, thought you might have more luck figuring it out." He held up a manila envelope over his shoulder, and felt it gently taken from him as he went on. "Butler says the envelope was delivered, by messenger, about an hour before Letherington died. He thought it might have been from some dame, Madame Ingomar, that his boss had been meeting up with recently. But who sends a blank note?

"That's all I got for now. I'll send you a copy of the post-mortem report."

The reply was in a keen, cutting whisper. "Good work, detective. You will hear from me."

Then the long shadow was gone.

Somewhere, a bright white light illuminated a wooden desk. A pair of long white hands took up a pen and a sheet of paper. On one of the hands was a ring bearing a single red stone, a rare fire opal. The hands began to write.

_David Ackerman – State Department_

_Simeon Meyer – New York University_

_Caspar Letherington – Businessman_

_What do they have in common?_

_Quick and sudden death – poison? Administered how?_

_Mark on Letheringtons' hand. Perfumed paper._

_Madame Ingomar?_

As each word was written, it slowly began to fade. Shortly after the final question mark was inscribed, the sheet was apparently as blank as it had been before a word had been set down. One of the hands then moved to a box on the table and pressed a button. From the grille on the front of the box a matter-of-fact voice said, "Burbank."

The cold, whispering voice began to issue instructions:

"Mann to investigate links between victims David Ackerman, Simeon Meyer and Caspar Letherington. Marsland to look into any possible criminal connections. Lane to investigate Madame Ingomar, Vincent to shadow Lane. Package to be sent to Dr Tam for analysis."

The light went out. In the darkness that followed, there was an eerie, chilling laugh.

The room was dimly-lit, luxuriously furnished in the Oriental manner, and the air was heavy with incense. The woman who knelt on a cushion in the centre of the apartment was extraordinarily beautiful, a happy mix of European and Oriental features that produced a striking, exotic harmony. Eyes downcast, she spoke softly to the figure who occupied a thronelike chair in front of her.

"The third man is dead, Honourable Father. It has been confirmed."

The voice that replied was soft, precise and sibilant, but marred by the occasional guttural tone. "Do the police suspect anything?"

The woman shook her head. "They are at a loss. They can find no clear cause of death, or any obvious link between the three men. Their legal system gives them limited time to find such things before they must conclude their investigation.

"But there is one, a Detective Cardona, who is cleverer than most. He found the paper sent to Letherington, and took it."

A soft laugh came from the throne. "I wish them well in their study of it. What criminal intent can be found in scented paper?"

"None, by the authorities." The woman replied. "But our agent tells us that Cardona has delivered a piece of the sheet to another."

"Another?" The voice grew more sibilant. "The Man of Bronze?"

"No." The woman replied. "Savage is not currently in America, as we know. The mercenaries we sent to Hidalgo are keeping him occupied there." Her voice became hesitant as she continued. "The agent we sent to follow Cardona reported that he spoke to _someone_ at the morgue, and passed them an envelope containing some of the sheet."

"And our agent did not retrieve it?" The male voice had anger in it now.

"He could not." The woman said hurriedly. "He saw no-one! He reports that Cardona spoke to someone, and held up the envelope, which was taken from him. But at no time did he see another man there.

"Honourable Father, is it possible that the rumours are true? The rumours of an avenger darker and more dangerous than Savage?"

The man on the throne leaned forward now, bringing his face into the light. It was a striking face, gaunt, yellow and compelling in its aura of malice. Under a high, domed brow crowned with close-cropped neutral-coloured hair were a pair of remarkable eyes; long, only slightly slanted, and of an intense and brilliant green. The oddest feature about them was a kind of film which seemed most of the time to dull them, but which now slid aside, like the nictitating membrane of a bird or lizard, to reveal them in all their malignant brilliance.

"These are myths!" Hissed Dr Fu Manchu. "I do not know whether they are concocted by the police to cover their own illegal vigilantism, or by criminals to explain away their failures, but myths they must be. The skills they ascribe to this being could not be learned by any Westerner.

"Where is our agent?"

"He is held at the meeting place." Replied Fah Lo Suee. "I thought you might wish to question him yourself."

"Bring him." He ordered.

She made her prostration, then rose and left. Fu Manchu remained on his throne, his eyes dimmed as he brooded. To his daughter, he had appeared confident in his claim that no Westerner could learn the ancient skills needed to hide from sight, but within himself, he felt doubt.

As Lord of the Si Fan, there were few places in the East that were closed to Fu Manchu. The Shaolin temples of Honan, the ninja _ryu_ of Japan, the secret temples of Kali in India, even the retreat of the Old Man of the Mountains, master of the _hashishin_, all were open to him. But three places remained closed. The City of Shangri-La was one; the sole pass leading to it eternally guarded by the intelligent, incorruptible and immortal Yeti. Another was the Himalayan fastness of Yan the Ancient One, called the Sorceror Supreme. Finally, somewhere in Mongolia, was a hidden temple where a mysterious _tulku_ was said to guard a strange knowledge and power -the power to cloud mens' minds. It was, Fu Manchu supposed, possible that any of these three places might have admitted outsiders from time to time, as students or guests, but a Westerner?

His thoughts were interrupted in a most unseemly manner, as Fah Lo Suee flung open the door of the chamber and dashed in, followed by others.

"Father, I am sorry!" She cried. "But this you must see!"

She gestured urgently, and two dacoits came into the room, carrying a body between them, which they laid on the floor. Fu Manchu stepped down from his throne to examine the dead man. It was the ninja he had set to follow and report on Cardona, the one who had spoken of an invisible man.

The cause of his death was evident, a single shot to the head from a heavy-calibre pistol. But that was not the thing which caused the film to lift from Fu Manchus' eyes. It was the note pinned to the dead mans' chest. A note written on heavy, expensive paper in the clear hand of an educated man. A note of three words:

_The Shadow knows._

As Fu Manchu watched, the writing slowly faded away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Kiss of Death**

_Another one!_ Cardona thought. _This is getting to be an epidemic! _Dr Harold Latimer, celebrated physician and expert in Oriental diseases, lay dead on his bedroom carpet, in his dressing gown and pyjamas. His face was distorted, swollen and puffy, there was a familiar red mark on the back of his hand, and despite the open window, a heavy perfume hung in the air. Cardona went about his business with his usual thoroughness.

The household was a small one, consisting of the doctor, a Burmese American houseboy called Joe and a cook who went home after dinner. No, there had been no visitors. No, nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Oh, wait! A note had been delivered by hand. Nothing remarkable about the delivery boy, he was wearing the uniform of a local messenger service. There had been a scream about one in the morning, and Joe had rushed into the room to find his employer dead. No, he hadn't touched anything, he knew about fingerprints, he'd just called the cops.

But Joe had more to say for himself than that. Once the stolid uniforms were out of the way, he began to speak to Cardona in a more confidential tone.

"Look, Detective, I didn't want to say anything in front of the others, but you look like a guy who's seen a few things, so I'll tell you. My boss was a good man, and if I can help, I will."

"So what do you have?" Cardona asked.

Joe looked embarrassed. "Just an old story, really. Look, when I saw that red mark on the back of the docs' hand it reminded me of something.

"I was born here in America, but my parents were only kids when they came over with my grandparents. When we were small, my grandmother used to tell us stories about the old country. Not the kind of stories that Mr Disney would make into his movies, Detective, but old, scary ones.

"One of her favourites was about the Zayat Kiss. Back in Burma, a zayat is a kind of roadhouse, there's one in almost every village, where travellers can stop for the night. Way Grandma used to tell it, there was one particular trail, deep in the jungle, where the zayats were cursed. Some of the people who used them used to wake up in the night screaming, then just drop dead. They all had that red mark, like a ladys' lips, somewhere on them. That's why they called it the Zayat Kiss. Story goes it got so bad that nobody used those trails any more, and the villages were abandoned.

"Seeing that mark on the docs' hand brought it back to me, I guess. Sounds kind of crazy now I say it out loud, but I thought I ought to tell you."

Cardona nodded. "I get that, Joe. Look, they're going to take your statement in a minute. Just stick to what you heard and saw last night. This isn't the first case like this, and there's nothing to tie you to the others, so don't worry. Just keep the rest between us, I know some people who can look into it. Thanks."

Cardona went back to the precinct and typed out two reports. One simply recorded the facts of his investigation. The other was longer, and contained everything Joe had told him. The first he filed. The second he took out with him to a quiet office building downtown, where he posted it through the letterbox of an office belonging to a B Jonas. An office that was never open, but received a good deal of mail.

Margot Lane was, of course, an asset to any social gathering. Apart from her classic good looks and witty conversation, her position as the only child and therefore heiress of Professor Reinhardt Lane, a brilliant engineer whose numerous patents had made him immensely rich, secured her an entree almost anywhere. The only disappointment she provided was to show a distinct lack of interest in the bachelor sons of those whose social position was no longer backed by quite so much wealth as it had once been.

For Margot, having frequently vacuous young men pushed at her was a cross she bore philosophically. There were more than enough clever men around to engage her interest, after all. Men who did not mind if the glance of her sapphire-blue eyes was occasionally more shrewdly penetrating than was usual, and had no objection to her small-talk holding more than wonted substance. Margot had inherited all of her fathers' brilliance, without his fascination for the mechanical and dislike of company. Had the denizens of New York society known the ends to which she applied that brilliance, they might have made her less welcome. Not all of these people were quite as respectable as they seemed.

An invitation to Mrs Vandermils' cocktail party this evening, for instance, had required no effort on Margots' part to secure, and placed her exactly where she wanted to be. Aware of the necessity of circulating before zeroing in on her target, Margot scanned the room, and immediately found the company she was hoping for. She advanced into the room an approached the tall, darkly handsome man who had just finished talking to a portly financier.

"Hello, Howard!" She greeted him with genuine pleasure. "I didn't know you'd be here."

Howard Stark grinned at her. "How could I not come, once I heard you'd be here, Margot?"

"Oh, no!" She responded in mock distress. "Don't tell me Dad sent you to keep an eye on me again!"

"No, I used my own initiative!" He told her. "How is the old grouch, anyway? I've been out of town lately and haven't had time to catch up."

"Oh, deep in some project or other." She replied. "You'll have to go see him, he'll be pleased to have someone to talk to who actually understands more than a third of what he says!"

Margot Lane and Howard Stark had more or less grown up together. They had been neighbours and school friends. Howard had in fact been the only one of Margots' school friends to be well-regarded by her brilliant but irascible father. Howards' quick mind and quicker fingers had engaged Lane, who saw in the boy an echo of his younger self. In later years, Howard had studied under Professor Lane, and now ran his own engineering company, beginning to amass a fortune to match his mentors'.

The two now fell into the easy conversation of old friends, allowing Margot to gently steer Howard in the direction she wanted. There were two people she was looking for.

She noted the first almost at once, in a quiet corner near the bar, where, coincidentally, he had a clear view of the entire room. Harry Vincent was not one of the gilded elite of society, but was, in his own way, quite as welcome as Margot. A young man with a considerable private income (it was assumed), but yet not wealthy enough to attract the attention of fathers with a daughter to marry off, Vincent was not so much a playboy as a man-about-town. Welcome for his skills as a dancing partner, an escort for surplus ladies, a good listener to older folk and an entertaining companion for younger, he found himself invited to many places.

There was another side to his reputation, however. In a world of spoiled and often irresponsible young people, there is always room for a steady, responsible man who can handle himself and others discreetly. Harry Vincent was such a man, and was often relied upon by fathers, mothers and even elder brothers to keep their less mature or cautious family members out of trouble, or to extricate them from unwanted entanglements. As with Margot, however, had people known about his other work, they might well have trusted him less.

By now, Margot had deftly manoeuvred Howard and herself into the group she wanted. The one surrounding tonights' star guest. Madame Ingomar had taken New York society by storm when she had suddenly appeared at the beginning of the season. A stunningly beautiful, elegant and apparently wealthy Eurasian woman, she had overcome the handicap of her race through charm and the aura of mystery that hung around her.

The general consensus, supported by comments the lady herself had let fall, was that she was the result of a marriage between a Russian nobleman and a lady of the Chinese court. Her father had been a diplomat in the service of the Tsar, her mother the daughter of a high-ranking Mandarin. The couple had been forced to flee China after the 1911 revolution had overthrown the Empire. Then the October Revolution had seen the Dukes' execution by the Bolsheviks and the flight of his wife and daughter to Paris, where they had come under the protection of one Count Ingomar. This had continued beyond the death of the Duchess until the passing, some five years ago, of Count Ingomar himself. On his deathbed, he had married his ward, thus giving her the protection of his famous name, and making her heiress to his vast fortune. Since then, Madame Ingomar had cut swathes, it was said, through High Society in Paris, Rome, Vienna and London, before descending on New York.

For now, the mystery woman was part of a group being addressed, at some length and with more passion, by Mr Jake Grandison. Grandison was a financier and businessman with a reputation for directness and aggressive dealings. He was in fact often referred to as 'the bull of Wall Street', with the implication that it was better not to get in his way. His nickname might equally have applied to his physical appearance, for he was a stocky man, not overly tall, but broad-shouldered and powerful, with a large head set solidly on a thick neck. Under his heavy brow, topped with short-cropped flaxen hair, his hot dark eyes flashed as he spoke in a deep, rich voice.

"China has almost unlimited potential." He was saying. "Not just as a market, but as a producer. It just needs waking up, bringing into the Twentieth Century! The Kuomintang did a good job getting rid of the Emperors, but they haven't done enough to change the rest of the country yet."

"What exactly do you mean by that, Mr Grandison?" Madame Ingomar asked. Her English was flawless, with just enough of an exotic accent to make it fascinating.

"I mean they need to be like us, of course, like Americans!" Grandison declared. "Right now, most Chinese people act like nothings' changed. They do what they've always done, follow their fathers into the same trade, do what they're told. That's not right."

"That is the Chinese way." Madame Ingomar pointed out. "Respect for tradition, following the rules and wishes of parents and ancestors. These are the teachings of Confucius and Lao-tze, after all."

"Well, they're wrong!" Replied Grandison bluntly. "When this country was founded, the Founding Fathers were building something they meant to be an example for the whole world to follow. Get rid of your kings, your traditions, your bowing and scraping. Every man starts in the same place, and it's up to him to use what brains he's got, plus hard work, to make the best of himself. Look at me; my Pop was a clerk in a bank, now I own that bank. That's the American way, and that's what I'll bring to the Chinese people.

"Caspar, God rest him, agreed with me, and we were working for it together. Now he's gone, but I intend to carry on. We'll build factories, get people to work in them. If the people are any good, they'll get promoted, so they know it's their own work that gets them places. And we'll build schools for the employees' kids, where we'll teach them good honest Christianity, as well as about democracy, freedom and how to make your own way, like an American!

"Europes' day is done, Russia is falling apart, we need to look East now. China will be the new America, some day soon."

Howard rolled his eyes at Margot. He was American to the core, but in dealing with foreigners, he knew enough to respect their way of doing things. She shrugged back. The group broke up as people mingled. Margot continued to circulate, keeping a discreet eye on Madame Ingomar as she did so.

She was not entirely surprised when she saw Madame Ingomar speaking with Grandison in a quiet corner. Not did she have to work herself closer to overhear them. Like all The Shadows' agents, Margot had been trained to read lips.

"You know, do you not," Madame Ingomar was saying, "that some in China, some in places of power, are opposed to your ideas?"

"Some folk will always fight progress." Grandison replied. "It scares them."

"True." She admitted. "But I happen to be in contact with people there who have different ideas. Ones closer to yours. Their position makes it difficult for them to support you openly. But would you be prepared to meet them, discreetly?"

"Despite my reputation," he told her, "I can be discreet when it's needed."

"Then I will send you a note, by messenger, later tonight." She promised. "We will talk more another time."

Margot approached her hostess. "Mrs Vandermil? I'm sorry, but could I ask you a favour?"

"Of course, Margot, dear!" Mrs Vandermils' smile was warm and motherly. "I've told you before, you must treat this house as your own."

"Then may I use your phone?" Margot asked. "Only if I don't call Dad to remind him, he'll forget to eat!"

Mrs Vandermil rolled her eyes. "Men!" She said. "My late husband was just the same, if he was working! It's a good job Reinhardt has you to take care of him, dear, but really, he should get married again. You have your own life to lead." She sighed. "I've lost track of how many times I've invited Reinhardt over for dinner, and he's never come yet. You must try to persuade him, Margot."

Margot laughed. "I could try, but as to his marrying again, I'm not sure I'd rest easy letting some poor woman take Dad on. He's such a grouch."

The older womans' eyes sparkled with humour. "Why and so was Mr Vandermil, dear! Any man worth his salt is impossible to live with! Beware of _nice_ young men, Margot -they never amount to anything! Use the phone in the library, dear."

Margot made sure the door was closed before she approached the instrument on the desk and dialled a particular number. Upon being answered, she spoke quickly and clearly.

"This is Lane. I think there's going to be another killing. Jake Grandison, tonight, at his home."

"Understood." The dry voice of Burbank showed not a trace of emotion, it never did. Margot put the phone down and went back to the party.

Jake Grandison was a very light sleeper, even after a cocktail party, so the scrabbling sound in his bedroom fireplace was enough to bring him fully awake. He lay for a moment, listening.

There it was again! A scrabbling sound, and a metallic clink. Grandison sat up in bed, switching on the lamp while reaching for the small revolver he kept by his bedside.

The light was only a bedside lamp, but bright enough to illuminate the whole room, albeit softly. What he saw was enough to freeze him, as much from surprise as fear.

Something was climbing out of the grate, unlit on this summer night. For a moment, Grandison couldn't make it out, but as it dropped onto the tiles, he saw it clearly. Some kind of centipede, almost a foot long, with a large, heavy head. The thing was a bright red colour and it hesitated for a moment, head questing around as if hunting for something. Then, quite suddenly, it darted directly for the bed!

Grandison raised his pistol, not sure that he could hit the thing if he tried, but not knowing what else to do. Then there was a whistling sound in the air, followed by a solid _thunk_. The huge insect was now pinned to the floor of the bedroom by a slender black-bladed knife. The thing thrashed frantically for a moment, then fell still.

For a moment, all was silent and still. Then, from a corner of the room that seemed darker than the rest, a form emerged. A tall figure wrapped in a black cloak, with a slouch hat pulled low over the brow. The only spot of colour was a red scarf across the lower part of the face, over which a hawklike blade of a nose protruded. From the shadows of the hat, a pair of cold, piercing eyes swept over Grandison once, then turned to the thing on the floor. The intruder moved silently across to the dead centipede, pulling the knife out of it and the floor effortlessly, then picking the insect up in gloved hands and placing it in a canvas bag.

Grandison found his voice. "You...you're...The Shadow!"

The Shadow stood upright and turned to face him. Grandison tried to meet those terrible eyes, but could not hold them for long. He heard the whispering voice as clearly as if it were a shout.

"Jake Grandison, you have placed yourself in the path of sinister forces. Tonight you have escaped death, but you may face other attempts. Leave New York tomorrow. Go to your island retreat on Lake Ontario, where you cannot be found, and wait there until I send word."

Grandison shook his head, bewildered. "Nobody knows about that island except me! How could you...?"

But The Shadow was gone, leaving behind only the echo of mocking laughter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Questions and Answers**

Dr Roy Tam was a lecturer and researcher in physics, so it was at the least unusual for him to seek the help and advice of an entomologist. That said, the unique specimen he had brought quite overcame any puzzlement on the part of Professor Hubert Grissom. Indeed, when Dr Tam came by later that day, Grissom thanked him heartily for the opportunity to study the giant centipede.

"You do know, don't you, Roy, that there is only one known specimen of this species in the West?" He began.

"No, I didn't." Tam admitted. "So you do know what it is?"

"Indeed, yes!" Grissom exulted. "_Scolopendra Osculans_, the so-called 'Kissing Centipede'. They call it that because when it bites, it leaves a red mark like the imprint of lips. It is believed to be the most venomous of the centipedes – its bite can kill a healthy human in seconds."

"It's a big brute." Tam allowed.

Grissom smiled. "About ten inches, which makes it almost as big as _Scolopendra Gigantea_, the Peruvian giant yellow-leg, and that's the largest known species. They can run to a clear foot.

"How did you come by it?"

"Guy I know found it in his greenhouse. Didn't like the look of it, so he stuck it with a gardening fork. He brought it to me because I work here and he figured I'd know somebody who'd be interested in it." Tam was becoming a better liar as time went on.

"He was lucky." Grissom observed. "Centipedes are fast! Makes us lucky too. Like I said, there's only one specimen of this species outside of Burma, where it comes from. That one's in the British Museum and it's in kind of a mess. Some guy hit it with a No. 2 wood!"

"That can't have been good for it!" Tam observed.

"Definitely!" Grissom observed. "I wouldn't have used the brassie myself, it's more of a mashie shot!"

Both men laughed, then. "You say this comes from Burma?" Tam asked. "My pal just took delivery of some orchids from there, he's a collector. Could this have come with them?"

"Could be." Grissom allowed. "What little we know about these things comes from some Brit Colonial Officer who worked out there. He says these centipedes are drawn to certain orchids. They don't see so good, you know, but they have these chemical receptors that function like scent. Seems the smell from some orchids attracts them. Folks out there learned not to bring those flowers into their houses or offer 'em at the temples.

"Centipedes are predators, you know, and this species is more aggressive than most. With that venom, well, people used to get killed. Like I said, your friend was lucky!"

"He was." Tam averred. "Well, thanks for that, Hubert. Keep the bug if you want, my friend just wanted to know what it was.

"By the way, how's that boy of yours?"

Grissom shrugged. "Like we thought, poor kid's stone deaf. But he's bright, he's picking up that hand-talk faster than his Mom and I can keep up. I don't think it's going to hold him back at all."

Zhao-Lin had mixed feelings about this meeting. Certainly, for the 489 of the White Leopards to meet face-to-face with a _quai-loh_ gangster was not common. Some would have regarded it as a significant loss of face. But the Lord of the Si-Fan had commanded this, and so greater face was to be gained by obedience. Also, the man he was meeting was no ordinary mobster. This was the Don, the Godfather, head of the most feared and respected of the Families.

Zhao knew the story of how young Vito Andolini had been smuggled out of Sicily, and taken the name Corleone to honour his place of birth. How as a young man he had 'made his bones' by gunning down the Black Hand _padrone_ Don Fanucci, becoming a 'man of respect'. From there, the wily young capo had built his empire on a mixture of ruthlessness and generosity until the Corleone Family dominated the rackets of New York.

There was no room for face in this meeting. They were on the Sicilians' own territory, and what mattered here was respect. Zhao and his bodyguard were both dressed in Western clothing from one of the finest tailors in New York. In turn, Corleone had received them in his private office, but had not made Zhao sit in front of his desk like a suppliant. Instead, both men were seated in comfortable armchairs in front of a low table.

Another Mafia boss had lost considerable face by serving badly-made tea to one of Zhaos' emissaries. Corleone made no such mistake, serving coffee in the Sicilian manner, which was excellent. Zhao had no objection to coffee, but rarely had the chance to drink it. It occurred to him that his host might be aware of this. The man was a barbarian, but no fool.

Corleone spoke first, with the air of a man who measures every word. "You do me great honour by visiting my house, Mr Zhao. May I ask what brings you here? If I have done anything to offend, I will gladly make it right."

"You have given no offence, Don Corleone. Your people respect my territory as my people respect yours, as we agreed some years ago." Zhao replied in the same careful manner. "I came seeking information."

"Anything I have, I will happily share." Corleone replied. "Provided that it will bring no harm to my people."

"That is understood." Zhao affirmed. "I seek only such knowledge as you might have concerning the one called The Shadow. He has had few dealings with us until now, but your people have encountered him often, I understand?"

Corleone frowned, and when he spoke, his tone was sombre and reflective. "You ask a question to which there are no definite answers, my friend. You understand that I am a businessman, but also Godfather to my people. I provide them with safety, protection, I invest in their businesses, make them small loans in time of need and supply them with such small amusements as the Puritanical laws of this country frown upon. In return, I ask only their loyalty, the return of a favour for a favour, or a reasonable payment. But there are others in the same business as myself who have fewer scruples, less honour and respect. They prey on their people, squeeze them, extort them and threaten them. They stoop to kidnapping, murder and the violation of women. It is on these that The Shadow visits his vengeance.

"Much is said that is myth and legend. Few who have seen The Shadow survive, but those who do speak of a tall figure wrapped in black, wielding twin automatics with uncanny marksmanship, and always laughing as he kills. He is said to be a will o' the wisp, appearing and disappearing at will. He can penetrate any fortified, guarded house to leave sinister messages at a mans' bedside as he sleeps beside his wife. He knows all, sees all and there is no escaping him once he has begun to hunt. These are the tales men tell."

Corleone paused, and a memory rose, unbidden, into Zhaos' mind. His grandfather, spinning one of his tales, and prefacing it with an account of its heros' prowess: _It is said that a Shaolin monk can walk through walls. Looked for, he cannot be seen. Listened for, he cannot be heard. Felt for, he cannot be touched._ Could this be the secret of The Shadow? Almost a century ago, a half-American Shaolin had murdered a nephew of the Emperor and fled to America. In the then wide-open lawless spaces of the American West, not all the efforts of American law, Imperial agents and Triads had succeeded in finding Kwai-Chiang Caine. Might he, over the years, have passed his skills on to others? But Corleone was speaking again.

"I, however, am a man of reason, not to be frightened by ghost stories. The Shadow is a man, as other men. He may possess certain skills, perhaps learned in the military, or from the Indians on their reservations, which allow him to stalk silently and unseen. He certainly understands the power of terror. As to his knowledge, I suspect he has a network of agents and informants who spy for him. He is formidable, but not indestructible, if faced with a foe such as we are, Mr Zhao, men of intelligence and courage. Find a weak link in his organisation, and you could break him."

Zhao inclined his head. "My thanks, Don Corleone. This has been most helpful. Should you ever need anything I can provide, please ask."

Lamont Cranston exited his cab outside the Hellfire Club.

"You want I should wait, Mr Cranston?" Asked the cabbie.

"No thanks, Moe, I'll be a while." Cranston replied, then climbed the steps to the imposing door of the superb Georgian building.

This gentleman's club had little except the name in common with the one Sir Francis Dashwwod had kept at Medmenham Abbey in the 1700s. True, the club servants were dressed in Regency clothing, including powdered wigs, and rumour had it that, in formal meetings, committee members were required to wear similar garb. It was also, like its' predecessor, a place where rich and powerful men might come to be discreetly indiscreet; to openly discuss matters and express opinions which might outrage many if spoken elsewhere.

There were no orgies, but formal dances on suitable occasions (the only times ladies were admitted, and then only to the public rooms). There were no blasphemous rites, but a steady stream of support to worthy charities. On the other hand, a member staying overnight might arrange to be visited by a professional lady (or even gentleman), ready to supply any particular services he might require, with no danger of gossip.

Not that Cranston was seeking any such diversion today. He was here to meet an acquaintance whose presence in New York at this time was most fortuitous. The information gathered from various sources pointed to an Eastern origin for the mystery confronting The Shadow. Mann had reported that all the victims thus far had had Chinese connections, all with pro-American elements of the Kuomintang. The deadly centipede, the perfume on the blank notes, along with the tale of the Zayat Kiss, all pointed to Burma. Then there was the involvement of the Eurasian woman, Madame Ingomar.

The Far East remained, to most Americans, a closed book. But the British had been dealing with that part of the world for more than a century, and knew more than any other people of its ways and dangers. So Cranston had come here to speak with an Englishman.

Major-General Sir Richard Hannay was a much-decorated veteran of the Great War, who Cranston had met in the trenches during his own service. Though never close, they shared a mutual respect. Cranston also knew that as well as a soldier, Hannay was a spy of repute, whilst Hannay believed, albeit mistakenly, that Cranston served the US government in a similar capacity. Greetings between the two men were cordial, drinks were served and cigarettes lit. Then Hannay got down to business.

"Now, young Cranston," he said with the air of jovial bluntness that made him sound the beef-witted English squire he liked people to think he was, "nice as it is to see you, I don't think you came here to talk about old times. What's on your mind?"

Cranston gave him a terse but clear account of the recent happenings without, of course, mentioning The Shadow. Hannay listened, occasionally putting in a shrewd question. Afterward, he thought for a few moments, then asked.

"Tell me, Cranston, did you ever hear of the Diogenes Club?"

Cranston averred that he had not, and Hannay went on. "It's a club in London, founded in the last century by a group of senior Government men who had, shall we say, special duties. If I say that past members have included Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes, Allan Quatermain and Adam Adamant, you might take a guess at what I mean. I'm a member myself.

"Now the Club, like this one, is a place where a chap can go to discuss things openly with people he might not be expected to in the normal run of things. That way, we all get a clue as to what's going on, get a bigger picture as it were.

"Me I know a little bit about Europe and Africa, but not much about out East. But a fellow at the club, name of Nayland Smith, is steeped in it. Naturally, we've chatted from time to time.

"Now this centipede thing, and the whole Zayat Kiss business, is just like something that happened in London before the War. There were some killings and kidnappings, Scotland Yard were at their wits' end. Nayland Smith had been called back from Burma because he knew something about this.

"It seems there is some kind of Eastern organisation or brotherhood called the Si Fan, which is controlled by a Chinaman they call Dr Fu Manchu. Apparently this Fu Manchu is a genius of sorts, a scientist and a strategist. He uses all kinds of drugs and venomous creatures, but he also has people. These people are not like mobsters, Cranston, they're an altogether different breed; dacoits out of Burma, Thugs from India, Shaolin from China, Japanese ninja and even _hashishim_.

"Nobody seems to know quite what the aims of the Si Fan are. They certainly aren't favoured by the current Chinese government, who suspect them of trying to reinstate the Imperial line. Nayland Smith thinks they represent an Eastern alliance dedicated to restoring the old ways in the East and bringing the West under their control.

"If they are operating here, Cranston old fellow, your people are in for a difficult time!"

There is a certain shop in Chinatown, the upper storey of which is a windowless block. Though it is seldom spoken of, all know that this is the home, the sanctum, of Choy Lown. For decades this aged recluse has dwelt there, without friends, without family. Those who seek his advice, his judgement, must speak with the proprietor of the shop. In due course, a letter will appear, a wise mandate that resolves a dispute with fairness and justice. Should any defy that judgement, then suddenly they would find themselves troubled, trapped, their business gone awry, their plans failed, their face lost. Such were the 'toils of Choy Lown', a proverb for an inescapable situation.

Tonight, a rare visitor had been admitted to the sanctum. Dr Fu Manchu sat across the desk from Choy Lown. They spoke in elegant Mandarin, in the mode of the Imperial Court.

"I am honoured to be admitted here." Fu Manchu stated.

Choy Lown bowed his head. "The honour is mine, Lord Fu. How may I assist you?"

"I seek knowledge." Fu Manchu told him. "Knowledge of the _quai-loh_ called The Shadow. Rumour has it that you are his friend?"

"I am." Choy Lown confirmed. "But why should I betray the confidence of a friend, even to you, Lord Fu?"

"Were you anyone else, I would compel the knowledge from you!" Fu Manchu snapped. For a moment, the veil lifted from his eyes as he bent his terrible gaze on his host. Choy Lown gazed back, unperturbed, his own black orbs no less powerful. The contest lasted only a moment, then Fu Manchu made a gesture of dismissal. "But you are who you are." He admitted.

"You are wise enough not to challenge Those I serve." Choy Lown noted. "They approve of The Shadow and his actions, as do I. Justice must be served above all. As to you, your person They esteem, but your aims They do not."

Choy Lown picked up a paper from his desk, carefully written in elegant Chinese characters. He stamped the bottom of it with his chop, rolled it carefully and handed it across the desk.

"Here you will find the story of Ying-Ko. It is all I am permitted to tell you. The rest you must discover for yourself. Beware, Lord Fu! The Shadow is not as other men, and you may find yourself in toils more deadly than mine."

Fu Manchu took the paper, rose, bowed and left. As he did so, a sound seemed to come from the heavy hangings behind Choy Lown. An odd, sussurating whisper, as of many voices speaking many languages.

Reverend Jacob Trippett was not a 'hellfire and hallelujah', revival tent preacher. He looked askance at miraculous 'healings' performed before credulous crowds, at the mishandling of dangerous reptiles and the whipping of audiences into a frenzy of 'repentance' for sins real or imagined.

Nevertheless, his soul burned with missionary zeal, and he had not far to seek to find a mission. To Reverend Trippett, Christianity was the core and foundation of America. The Pilgrim Fathers had come to the New World to worship God in His own true way. The Founding Fathers had built Christian principles into the new nation they had created. Americans had saved the souls of countless Africans, brought from the night of devil worship and sloth to the light of God and honest labour. They had spread the Word to the lawless red savages of the forests and the plains.

So it vexed Rev Trippett to the core of his honest soul to know that here, in Americas' greatest city, lived a swarming community ignorant of salvation, still worshipping their false gods. He set himself to bring the Word to Chinatown.

For two years now, this tall, slender, austere figure had been seen around the thronged streets. He did not bully or harangue. He spoke with people, asked them about their lives, their families, their hopes and dreams. Gradually, he had made an impact. People saw that he lived the simple, humble life his stern Calvinist faith demanded, without hypocrisy. He gained great face by his courteous and respectful dealings with the Buddhist monks and the elderly. Slowly, the old shop he had rented and converted to a simple chapel, began to fill on a Sunday; first with the curious, but eventually with the converted, who called him 'Honourable Reverend'.

So it was a shock and grief to his small congregation, that bright Sunday morning, to find the Honourable Reverend laid dead on the communion table. Around his neck was the black and red bruising of strangulation, and a small figurine was laid on his chest. A manlike figure, carved in jade, with the head of a lizard and a long, protruding tongue.

Examining the carving later, Detective Cardona wondered what new campaign of terror was afoot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four: Mark of the Phansigar**

The new terror spread quickly. Before the day was out, three more deaths had occurred. One was not greatly mourned by some, it was true. The victim was an ambitious young Chinese businessman who had taken the step – unheard -of in a traditional Chinese community – of ruthlessly ousting his father from control of the family business, which he then began to run on American lines. He was found strangled outside his house, clearly ambushed on his way to work.

The other was, in Cardonas' eyes, simply a tragedy. A young Chinese woman who had flown against her parents' wishes to marry a white man. The couple had been found dead in the kitchen of their modest suburban home. Both had been strangled, though it appeared that the husband had put up a fierce defence. He had been still clutching a bloodstained kitchen knife, and there was blood at the scene, though neither victim was cut or stabbed.

The crimes had, Cardona realised, three things in common. The victims had all, in some way, defied traditional Chinese culture. They had all been strangled, and at all three scenes a lizard-headed figurine had been left prominently displayed. Cardona reported all these findings to his superiors and, with rather more confidence, to The Shadow.

Henry Kessler was of the firm belief that a mans' basement was his sanctuary. He might, in due course, invite his son down here, but for now, nobody but himself was allowed in.

Kesslers' ancestors had been craftsmen in wood, and though he himself was an auto mechanic – owning and managing his own repair shop – he still practised woodcarving as a hobby. The small box he was working on was slowly being covered with exquisite images of forest creatures surrounded by trees. He suddenly stopped work and put down the tool he was using.

"I may not be able to see you, but I can hear you." He said evenly. "I have exceptional hearing."

"Among other exceptional perceptions." The reply was in a cold whisper, and as Kessler turned in his chair, a tall, black-clad figure emerged from the shadows.

"Have you come to interfere again?" Kessler asked acidly. "I've done as you asked, though it goes against every tradition, everything my ancestors believed."

"And has anyone suffered from this?" The Shadow asked, cold mockery in his voice. "I am aware of your work. Those you have killed recently were a danger, a threat, they needed to be dealt with. But many of those you killed before were harmless, simple folk seeking only to make a life for themselves. Is failing to kill such people so terrible?"

"They aren't _human!"_ Kessler snapped.

The Shadows' voice became colder. "There are those who would say the same of black people, of Chinese. In the country of your ancestors there are many who say this of Jews. Such arguments can be used to explain the murder of innocents, but not to excuse it."

Kessler dropped his eyes, then said slowly. "I won't deny that since we last spoke, since I limited my activities to only the dangerous ones, I've slept better." He looked up with a wry smile. "It was part of my upbringing – Grimms hunt down and kill _wesen_, all _wesen_. But killing harmless _eisbieber_ and timid _maushertzen_ never sat well with me. Odd that it took staring down the barrel of your automatic to wake my conscience.

"But why are you here? When we last met, you said you would let me be if I did as you asked."

"I need your knowledge, and perhaps your skills, Henry Kessler." The Shadow replied. "You have heard of the recent stranglings?"

Kessler nodded. "I assumed it was some kind of political matter in Chinatown." He said.

"You are correct, as far as your knowledge goes." The Shadow noted. "But I am less interested in the source than the agency. Do you recognise this?"

He passed Kessler a photograph Cardona had had taken of one of the lizard-head carvings.

Kessler studied it, and his eyes went cold.

"As a woodcarver, I'd say the technique was excellent." He said evenly. "As a Grimm, however..."

He rose and went over to the heavy curtain that screened off part of the basement. Pushing it aside, he switched on a light far brighter than the one than shone over his workbench. The area held a reading desk, another workbench, and was lined with bookcases, except for a single, large, locked cabinet. Kessler went to one of the bookcases and ran his finger along a shelf with the precision of one who has carefully catalogued his library.

"Here." He said, taking down a large volume. He took it over to the reading desk, sat down and began to flip through the pages. The Shadow, standing behind him, saw that the book was not printed, but a handwritten journal, illustrated with sketches, many of which were quite disturbing.

Kessler stopped at a page illustrated with a sketch of a Komodo Dragon-like creature with a long, muscular tongue.

"This describes the _Phansigar_," he said, "have you heard the term?"

"It occurs in India as an alternate name for the Thugs." The Shadow replied.

Kessler nodded. "Not surprising, both favour the same method of killing. But the Thugs were merely human bandits who strangled their victims as a quicker and quieter method than stabbing or shooting.

"The _phansigar_, as you can see, use that powerful tongue instead of the scarf or cummerbund the Thugs employed. There's no doubt that some _phansigar_ were bandits – probably trading on the Thug reputation to mask their activities. However, every three years, _phansigar _are required to capture a married couple and bury them alive as a sacrifice to Kali. It's usually at that time they leave these figurines. The fact that they're doing it now tells me that they're out to spread terror.

"You implied that these _phansigar_ are working for someone?"

"Yes." The Shadow replied. "But that need not concern you, Henry Kessler. I need only your skills as a Grimm for this one task. The rest you may leave to me."

Kessler went over to the cabinet. Beside it, on the wall, was spread a map of the city and its environs.

"They'll need to be near Chinatown." He opined. "But they need space and solitude to set up their shrine and statues." He considered the map for a moment, then stabbed his finger at a specific spot. "Here." He said.

It had been a simple matter for Margot Lane to track Madame Ingomar to the brownstone she had rented. It quickly became clear, however, that the Eurasian socialite had interests elsewhere. Several nights a week, after returning home in her chauffeur-driven limousine, she would slip out, driving herself in an unremarkable sedan to parts unknown. Margot could hardly follow her in her own distinctive roadster without being noticed. The Shadows' organisation, however, could arrange an alternative.

Harry Vincent sat beside Moe Shrevnetts, a little down the street from Madame Ingomars' brownstone. Not for nothing was Moe known as the "King of the Cabbies", and his legendary driving skills made him capable of shadowing the most alert of drivers without being noticed, even in his yellow cab. Tonight, however, he and Vincent were occupying a very ordinary Ford.

Right on time, Madame Ingomar drove steadily past them. From what Vincent could see, she was wearing a light trenchcoat and a plain headscarf. He smiled grimly; she didn't want to be recognised, but had failed to take the simple precaution of varying her schedule. Moe let her get a reasonable distance ahead before pulling out to follow her. It was late, but not so late that the streets were devoid of traffic. Moe was able to trail his target at a discreet distance while seeming a part of the ordinary comings and goings.

After a while. Vincent asked. "What do you reckon, Shrevvy?"

Moe shrugged. "She's drivin' easy, careful, but she's not makin' any sudden turns or doublin' back. I figure she ain't expectin' to be followed, but she don't want to get noticed, either."

Moe dropped further back as they left the more frequented streets, moving into an area of tree-lined streets, with large houses set back in their own parcels of land.

"I know this place." Moe averred. "Used to be a classy area, but a lot of these places are empty now. Some day soon, it's gonna be bought up and turned into tract houses. Might buy me one, I've lived in apartments all my life, house of my own would be nice.

Ahead of them, Madame Ingomars' brake-lights suddenly flared as she slowed, then turned off the road and paused for a moment. Moe maintained his steady speed, and they passed the spot in time to see the back of the sedan disappear around the bend of a drive behind a pair of impressive wrought-iron gates.

Moe drove on a little way, before pulling onto the side of the road in the shelter of a large tree.

"Y'know," Vincent said reflectively, "some English guy once told me that, back in the old days, when they turned big old houses like these into insane asylums, they'd move the gates and put a curve in the drive. That way, the house was hidden from the road so people passing couldn't see the crazies. He reckoned that's why we say people are going 'round the bend'."

"You reckon she's visiting some crazy aunt or somethin'?" Moe asked.

"Could be." Vincent allowed.

"Well, we got the address." Moe pointed out. "The Boss should be able to find out easy enough."

"Yeah, but it'd be quicker if I took a look around." Vincent suggested.

"We was told to follow her and report back." Moe noted. "Didn't say nothin' about no scoutin' expeditions."

"Aw, come on, Shrevvy!" Vincent began to get out of the car. "No harm taking a look-see!"

The place was old, and neglected. Vincent soon found a spot where the roots of a large tree had undermined the brick wall, leaving a heap of rubble he could scramble over. The belt of trees inside the fence was not wide, but the undergrowth was thick, and difficult to get through. Once on the other side, Vincent noted that the lawns were similarly untended. The house itself was larger than most, and apparently unlit, though the bright moonlight was enough to show that all the shutters were closed. _It could be lit up like a Christmas tree in there, and nobody would know._ He thought.

Vincent was not entirely reckless – he'd been an agent of The Shadow for too long – and he knew better than to come any closer. He turned back into the trees to make his way out, quietly cursing the undergrowth.

Ironically, it was the undergrowth that saved him. It made a silent approach almost impossible. Vincents' every nerve was stretched, so the snap of a twig, the rustle of a leaf, was enough to alert him. He spun as a dark figure bounded toward him. Moonlight glinted off a wickedly-curved knife. Vincent slipped the charge and seized the knife-arm in a Judo grip that should have incapacitated his opponent. It succeeded in disarming him, sending the knife into the undergrowth. But Vincent was suddenly aware that the arm he was gripping was bare and unnaturally slick.

Showing remarkable resistance to pain, the shadowy assailant wriggled out of his grasp and stepped back into the moonlight. Short, wiry and muscular, naked except for a loincloth and headband, skin glistening as if oiled. The man grinned at Vincent, showing stained teeth, then lifted his head and opened his mouth.

Realising that his attacker was about to call for help, Vincent surged forward, but too late. There was a meaty smack, and the knifeman fall to his knees with a grunt. Behind him loomed the blocky form of Moe Shrevnetts. Moe punched the man in the back of the head again, this time producing a more sodden sound, and the oiled killer collapsed.

"Good job I decided to follow ya." Moe noted with a grin.

"What the heck did you hit him with?" Vincent wanted to know.

Moe extended his fist for inspection. It was the battered fist of a keen amateur boxer, adorned with a formidable and bloodied set of brass knuckles.

"Souvenir from a racketeer who was dumb enough to try and shake me down." Moe declared. "We'd better get this guy out of sight and hope they don't miss him too soon. At least we know this is the place, but the Boss won't be too pleased if you've tipped them off."

The place was a largish area of scrubland, used as a casual dump by the few who knew it existed. Even in a city as bustling as New York, there were places like this. Whether it was the subject of some drawn-out lawsuit between relatives or companies, or simply derelict land, records buried in a dusty vault at City Hall, Kessler neither knew nor cared. What interested him where the fires that burned in the centre of it. Not smouldering scrub fires, or kids' bonfires, but torches and one large central blaze.

Kessler moved his head a little. The spiked collar round his neck was uncomfortable, but necessary. He hefted the long sword he was carrying and told his silent companion. "I can handle them, but I'd appreciate it if you watched my back. We don't know how many there are."

"As you wish." Was the reply.

Kessler moved forward, avoiding the firelight as much as he could. His caution was unnecessary, the two men standing before the large central fire had their attention fixed firmly on it. They were chanting loudly enouhg to be heard over the crackling flames, but Kessler didn't recognise the language, catching only the name "Kali-ma", repeated often. At the centre of the fire lay the body of an older man. Kessler smiled grimly, it appeared that the young man they had murdered had given a good account of himself before the end.

He stepped out into full view now, and called out: "I'd spare some of those prayers for yourselves, if I were you!"

Both _phansigar_ spun, going into _woge_ as they did so. One of them hissed, "Grimm!", and they attacked.

Kessler swung his sword at the nearest, who avoided the strike by inches, and the inevitable happened. The other _phansigar_ had moved behind him and now looped his tongue around Kesslers' neck, impaling it on the spiked collar. The creature gave a high, thin shriek, ripping his injured tongue away. Kessler turned and took off his head with a single cut.

The other was a fast learner, it seemed, because he had snatched up an axe. Not a battleaxe, one used for chopping wood, but deadly enough. Unfortunately for him, he only knew how to use the axe as a woodcutter might, making wild, wide swings that Kessler easily evaded. But as he did so, the _phansigar_ also let out a weird, wailing call. It was the last sound he made as Kesslers' sword found his heart.

Kessler looked around, and saw that this was not over. Apparently summoned by the _phansigars'_ call, five or six men were running toward him. Wiry, brown-skinned men in loincloths, carrying nasty-looking knives. This was going to be hard – though he was a War veteran, Kessler had little stomach for killing humans.

Then The Shadow was beside him. "Go, Henry Kessler, your task is done!" He said. "These men are mine!"

Kessler needed no second bidding. He ran, trying hard not to hear the sounds from behind him. He had been in the Great War, he knew the sound of gunfire, had heard the screams and curses of dying men. It was the sound that rose over all the din that sent a wash of icy fear down his spine. It was the laughter of The Shadow!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Darkness and Fire**

Dr Fu Manchu sat brooding on his thronelike chair. It was his habit, in times like this, to seek a solution to problems in the dreams of the poppy. To others, opium might bring oblivion, but his own formulation of the drug, and the discipline of his brilliant mind, combined to give a different experience. A dilation of time and the ability to view problems from all angles, producing answers to difficulties that eluded his waking mind.

But now was not the time for such indulgences. His position here was delicate, delicate enough that even a small disturbance was magnified in significance. The Chinese here were different from those in Europe. So many viewed themselves not as Chinese in America, but Chinese Americans. True, they lived in their own communities, and adhered in many ways to their own traditions. But these things became, by the year, more casual, more to do with special occasions than everyday life. America, with its promises of equality, freedom and inclusion, was a temptation. Most white Americans still regarded other races as inferior, or at best alien, but a significant number were prepared to deal with Chinese as equals. Especially those Chinese who whole-heartedly embraced American ways.

Then there was their damned individualism. The way of the east placed the individual at the service of the community and family. It gave a place to everyone and kept everyone in their place. America promised each and every person the right to "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" without regard to family or community. For young men, grown restive under the yoke of filial duty, that promise could be irresistible.

So it was that the Si Fan – which was a name of terror commanding instant obedience throughout Europe and Asia – here became just another syndicate. One to be respected, it was true, but to be negotiated with rather than obeyed, and to be distrusted for its involvement in politics.

Fu Manchu had laid his plans carefully. The greatest threat to his ambitions, the man called Doc Savage, had been sent on a wild-goose chase. This should have given the Si Fan time to assert its dominance, to entrench itself. Fu Manchu was under no illusions – to match skill and wits with the Man of Bronze would require a position of power to begin from. He had not expected interference from another, apparently equally dangerous, quarter.

He shrugged. The fame of Savage rang across the globe, but this Shadow was a man of whisper and legend, known only among those who had reason to cross his path – and too often to regret doing so. The same had happened in Africa. The Si Fan had avoided conflict with the Dark Continents' famous protectors, Allan Quatermain and Lord Greystoke, only to fall foul of a man spoken of only in scared whispers as "The Ghost Who Walks".

This Shadow had unravelled the mystery of the Zayat Kiss as quickly and efficiently as Fu Manchus' esteemed opponent Nayland Smith had done decades earlier. He had also apparently unleashed a Grimm on Fu Manchus' _phansigar_ This would cause more difficulty, relations with the Verrat were tenuous at best, though on the other hand _they_ had neglected to inform Fu Manchu of the presence of a Grimm in New York.

But this final act was the worst. The death of one dacoit was, in and of itself, nothing – less than nothing. But that the killing should take place on Fu Manchus' own doorstep...! For a moment the green eyes lost their veil and shone malignantly, but then the Doctor took a deep breath. No, this was no insult. The Shadow was no Sicilian mobster to deal in insults or even threats. This was a warning, as one honourable man to another, that Fu Manchus' hiding place was known.

Fu Manchus' eyes flickered over to the writing desk, and to Choy Lowns' manuscript. He had never accepted the theory, urged by some, that The Shadow was a descendant of Kwai Chiang Caine. The renegade ShaoLin had indeed passed his blood and skills to a number of descendants and students, but the Si Fan had always known who and where they were. Caines' ancient teacher, Master Po, had been esteemed among Fu Manchus' predecessors, and the boy who avenged his death had been protected – his descendants were not to be touched.

But Ying-Ko, that was another tale, rife with potential. Ying-Ko, the Dark Eagle, the Westerner who had become, for a time, Tibets' most feared and bloodiest warlord and opium dealer. Ying-Ko, who had disappeared overnight at the height of his power, taken, it was rumoured, by agents of the mysterious Tulku – master of the Monastery of the Clouds. The manuscript drew no direct link between Ying-Ko and The Shadow, it was true, but still. The New York vigilante shared the tactical brilliance that had rendered Ying-ko supreme in so short a time. He possessed the same ruthlessness as the man who, when his most trusted advisor was taken hostage, ordered his guards to shoot _through_ the old man to kill his captors.

So it was that now, Fu Manchu waited. The most valuable of his equipment and possessions had already been loaded onto a ship at the docks. The house was filled with dacoits, Thugs and ninja. All was ready. America must be abandoned for now, for Savage was already on the way back to New York. The Shadow had prevented Fu Manchu from achieving the security he needed, but before he retreated, he would see this one obstacle removed.

Fah Lo Suee, alias Madame Ingomar, had – in her own mind – far more reason to loathe The Shadow than her father. Her appearance of daughterly obedience notwithstanding, she had her own agenda. Gifted with all the brilliance of her genius father, Fah Lo Suee was far from content to forever play the submissive role. If Hua Mulan and Catherine the Great – powerful women from both sides of her heritage – could stand among men as equals, then so could she.

Here in America, in the persona of Madame Ingomar, she had begun to work toward her freedom. Here were rich, powerful men, men of influence and standing, who nonetheless lacked the sophistication of European men. They could be manipulated, entranced, seduced into marrying an exotic, wealthy widow – even one of mixed blood. Her father would be furious, of course, but far too much the traditionalist to do anything but cast her off. Then she would be free, free to pursue her own quest for power.

But now this Shadow, this American gangster of gangsters, had forced them to leave before her plans were mature. She smiled wryly as she drove. It had in part been her own fault. Her first chosen target – the handsome and wealthy Howard Stark – had proved too perceptive, seeing through her approach and courteously but firmly avoiding her. Clearly his reported brilliance extended to more than machines. Her campaign to secure the ageing but still vigorous widower patriarch of the van Dyne dynasty was in its earliest stages. Effort gone to waste. The Shadow would pay for that tonight.

She turned into the drive of the mansion. She had come her regular route at the regular time, her father was sure she was being followed, and wished to give The Shadow no hints that might cause his plans to change. She would pass through the house, slip into another car at the rear and be gone to the docks in minutes.

She slipped in quickly, ignoring the dacoit who opened the door to her knock. The light in the vestibule was dim, but neither noticed that, for a second, it dimmed even further.

Rutledge Mann had been as efficient as ever. According to his investigations, the mansion had recently been bought by a distinguished academic from Paris. It was as yet unoccupied except for crews of workmen given the task of converting the place for the new owners' use. Apparently, it remained unconnected to any of the utilities, yet lights burned inside. Bright enough to see by, yet not so bright as to shine through any cracks in the tightly-closed shutters.

Alone in the hallway, The Shadows' keen ears caught the sound he had expected – the steady hum of a generator. Laughing softly, The Shadow, silent-footed and unseen, followed the sound.

Among all his other concerns, Fu Manchu found time to be amused at his daughter's' well-hidden chagrin. Did she truly think that he was unaware of her little plans? The foolish child was becoming a liability, but lacking a son, he had been forced to rely on her. Perhaps it was time to be rid of her. Perhaps the next time they came here, he would allow her to marry some vapid American millionaire, and leave her to her own little games, if she were so small-minded.

His sanctum was lit not by electric lights, but by oil lamps, so that at first he did not understand the furore in the rest of the house. The shouts, calls, sounds of stumbling and falling into furniture. Then he realised that beneath the new sounds, a familiar one was missing. The generator had fallen silent!

Was this mechanical failure, or had the unthinkable happened? Had The Shadow managed to penetrate his headquarters?

Then the sounds changed. Shouts meant to communicate became yells of terror and shrieks of pain. There were the sounds of falling bodies, groans and death rattles, and the occasional, single shot.

What was this? With the lights gone and the shutters nailed close, everything beyond this room must be in utter blackness. No dacoit, or even ninja, could function in total darkness. Only the Wild Man of the Canadian forests could do that, and if he were here, all was truly lost!

But it seemed the Wild Man was not alone in his mastery of darkness. Among the other sounds, following every scream, every thud of a falling body, every shot, there was another more chilling. A cold laughter that was not the cackling of a madman, but the contempt of the superior warrior for the inferior. This was no amusement, but a cry of _vae victis_ – woe to the vanquished!

Of all the epithets hurled at Fu Manchu throughout his career, 'coward' had never been one. Even his greatest enemy, Nayland Smith, had commented often on the quality of his courage. So it was that he remained where he was. His plan was in shreds, but the final act still remained, his chance might yet come. But as he waited, he took a moment to admire the bravery and skill of this latest opponent. He had expected a raid by heavily-armed men, be they masked agents of The Shadow, police or even soldiers. Never in his darkest dreams had he thought that The Shadow would invade this place alone!

Then there were two splintering crashes, as his panicked minions finally found the doors. There was the sound of men fleeing into the night, calling on Mother Kali or the Amida Buddha for protection, and over all, the laughter of The Shadow. Then silence.

Despite his every sense being stretched, Fu Manchu did not see or hear anyone enter the room. The Shadow was just suddenly there, just as described be terrified American gangsters, tall, wrapped in a black cloak, wearing a black slouch hat and a red scarf over the lower part of his face. Above the scarf, a hawklike nose and a pair of icy eyes which studied Fu Manchu with curiosity and respect, but no fear.

"Dr Fu Manchu, I presume?" The Shadow spoke in flawless Mandarin.

Fu Manchu chose to answer in English. "The Shadow, I take it. Are we alone now?"

The Shadow laughed softly. "Your men are either braver or more foolish than their American counterparts. They fought well, and those who died, died well."

Fu Manchu inclined his head. "Doubtless had they been less ignorant of what they faced, they would have fled sooner.

"But indulge my curiosity a moment. Are you, or are you not, Ying-Ko?"

"Ying-Ko is the past." The Shadow stated. "Suffice to say that he was me, but I am no longer him."

"Ah, the western penchant for change." Fu Manchu shook his head. "A pity. Ying-Ko would have made a valuable ally."

"Shiwan Khan thought the same." The Shadow responded.

"Hah!" Fu Manchus' scorn was evident. "Do not compare me to some Mongol barbarian! Surely you must know, as a man of intelligence, who has lived in both east and west, that our victory is inevitable? Here, in the west, men think only of their own lifetimes, or at most of their childrens'. In the East, we think in generations! We will wait a thousand years if necessary, but we will prevail."

"That is not my concern." The Shadow told him. "I see only that you and your agents have done evil. However noble you might see your aims as being, you have tainted them with murder and terror. I am here to punish transgressions, not manipulate history."

"So be it." Fu Manchu replied. "Please understand I bear you no personal ill-will."

He had been lightly gripping the arm of his throne as they talked. Now, with his thumb, he pressed two buttons concealed among the carvings. Immediately, steel shutters sealed off every entrance to the room. Seconds later, the oil lamps exploded violently, spraying their blazing contents around the room. At the same time, rows of concealed gas jets, one in front of the door, one in front of the throne, ignited, creating impenetrable barriers of flame.

Fu Manchu rose to his full height. "Only one shall leave this room!" He declared. "And I, I am the Lord of the Flames!" For a moment, he was hidden by a cloud of purple smoke. When it cleared, Fu Manchu was gone!

But so was the dark figure surrounded by the flames. The Shadow slipped out from behind Fu Manchus' throne and, ignoring the spreading flames, began to carefully examine the floor where the Doctor had been standing.

Fu Manchu stood for a moment at the foot of the gangway, looking out over New York. This was almost the same view as the first time he had seen this city, on his arrival some months before. Then he had studied it with the eye of a general seeking conquest, but his view now was more philosophical.

New York was, in some ways, a summation of this whole country. Big, brash, bright, loud and young. A veneer of sophistication over naivete, and under all a black mass of poverty and crime. Great things were being done here. Clever, dedicated men and women were working in many fields, pushing science and the arts to new heights, trying to improve life for one and all. Yet other, equally clever and dedicated people, were working just as hard to enrich themselves at the expense of others, to elevate their own personal power beyond what was proper, driving corruption and crime to new depths. Such was the fate of a people who had forgotten that the safety, freedom and prosperity of families, communities and nations must be bought at the price of the individuals' freedom.

Well, the battle was lost, but the war continued. Those Fu Manchu served were patient. There had been others before him, and yet others would follow him. For now, it was time to leave this land, but in due course he, or another like him, would return.

He thoughts were interrupted by the roar of a powerful car engine. A bronze-coloured convertible pulled to a stop under the arc-lights at the landward end of the jetty, and a figure climbed out. A tall, powerfully-built man with short-cropped hair. Even the glare of the arcs could not bleach the unique bronze tone from his skin. Doc Savage made no move, simply stood watching. Fu Manchu understood. This was not a challenge, but a warning. Savage would not be so easily outmanoeuvred next time, and for now whatever traces of Si Fan organisation remained in the US would be efficiently and bloodlessly extirpated. Fu Manchu bowed formally to Savage, who returned the gesture with characteristic grace and courtesy.

Well, at least one of Americas' defenders was no more, and Fu Manchu felt in his bones that The Shadow had perhaps been more dangerous than even Savage. As he turned to mount the gangway, Fu Manchu became aware of something close by. A long, black shadow cast by nothing he could see. He realised he was being watched, not just by Savage, but by another cold, measuring gaze.

It was with some difficulty that Dr Fu Manchu maintained a dignified pace as he made his way to the deck, followed as he was by the cold, mocking laughter of The Shadow!


End file.
